Mister Comedy

Apparently I’m confused. Now I’ll grant you, I’m old enough to remember when ‘reality’ and ‘tv’ were two different things. But apparently, congressional leaders investigating abuses in the war on terror believe that the Fox series ‘24′ may have led to actual human rights violations. Well, stop it. I have had enough of commentators, analysts, critics and other talking heads commenting, analyzing, criticizing and talking about the show ‘24′ as if the show (and that’s gonna be a key word here, people–’show’) should be held responsible for actual incidents of torture from Abu Graib to Guantanamo.

Understand–I believe torture is unequivocally wrong. I also believe that if military or law enforcement people representing the United States are engaging in torture because they saw it on a goddam tv show, then the fault is not with the tv show but in fact is with the real world humans committing the torture. If our agents are so stupidly malleable that they are watching Kiefer Sutherland and thinking “that’s what we need to do–watch this guy–he must know what he’s doing–he was in ‘The Lost Boys’!”, then we need to take a good long look at how we’re training our agents.

It’s all made up, people. And, it’s on Fox–anyone whose worldview is shaped by Fox is already a lost cause.  The whole thing is circular–the show ‘24′ has been given WAY more cultural significance than it deserves precisely because everyone’s worried about its cultural significance. This hand-wringing over Jack Bauer’s tactics (oh, by the way–he’s fictional) is like every other nontroversy regarding art’s influence on behavior. Like when thousands of dollars were spent to prove there’s more smoking in movies than in real life (duh–there’s also more spaceships–they’re fucking movies!) .

Just because I find ‘24′  to be a well-acted, tautly written, compelling action story does not mean I believe the best way to get information from bad guys is to cut off their fingers. Any more than watching infomercials when I’m drunk at 3 am means I believe that I can solve all my financial problems buying foreclosed properties for three hundred dollars.

If the amount of violent acts on television witnessed by children is causing children to be more violent, maybe–just maybe–it’s because parents are letting their kids watch too much television! I have an idea–try parenting! Keep track of what your kids watch and…I don’t know, talk to them about what they see and hey–if you’re not too busy, give them some parental guidance if they see bad things!

And why doesn’t this Svengali-like influence work both ways? It’s not like when tv shows good things and laudable examples of behavior, millions of people started…being good. I haven’t done the research on this, but I doubt that when there’s a new Hallmark Hall of Fame movie about an orphanage, donations to orphanages skyrocket.

If you happened to read my previous post, you know that I attempted to move to New York. Turns out, I ran out of couches on which to crash before I was able to start generating income (I knew it was a long shot), but it was a great experience, and I’ll be back (in retrospect, three hundred dollars probably isn’t really enough money to really make it there)…

So, I’m in Minneapolis, staying with a friend until the winds of fortune blow favorably for me again. And I got to thinking–in all my vagabonding, I’ve formed very specific relationships with each of the cities I’ve explored. Because really, when you move somewhere new, it’s a lot like dating–you get to know the personality of the place, try to figure out if the two of you are meant to be together…sometimes you have to break up with a place, and sometimes you just end up with some great memories. I decided to reminisce about the cities I’ve been ‘involved’ with.

Los Angeles: Ahh, my first love. I really only started seeing you because you were my neighbor growing up. We met when I went to UCLA, and I thought you were fun. But a guy needs more than fun, and besides, you were always dealing with some sort of drama–earthquakes, fires, mudslides–I needed something more stable in a relationship. It wasn’t till after I left you that I realized how shallow and superficial you really are, but I wish you well–I’m sure you’ll find others who get lured by your easy charm.

Minneapolis (the first time):  My first grownup relationship with a city. You encouraged me with your midwestern nurturing…because of you I was able to pursue my career. You cooked me wild rice soup and were always so nice…but like a typical man, I left because you were too nice. I thought I’d outgrown you, and needed have a little more action in my life. And let’s be honest–you can be really cold.

Boston: I’ll admit it–I was a jerk when we first got together. In my late twenties, making good money as a comedian, I was cocky and full of myself…I used you and had no intention of staying with you. We weren’t right for each other, and to be honest I always resented your provincial ways.

Miami: 1987…You were hot. And you got me into a lot of trouble. I’ve got no hard feelings about the time we spent together–but this was just a fling, all sex and drugs and no romance. I actually saw you again recently, and thought you looked good.

Los Angeles (again): I had no business seeing you again, and during our brief reunion I didn’t feel like I had ever really known you. Maybe it’s my insecurities–you’re almost too pretty for me, and though I still think about you, and I still want you, I can’t see you again.

Portland: After living on the edge for so many years, I found you, and I fell in love. You were so comfortable and low-maintenance. But ultimately, we just spent too much time getting stoned, and I was worried I was becoming complacent. With you, Portland, I didn’t have the drive to accomplish much, but it was cool hanging out.

Chicago: Now you were one helluva lady. A shot and a beer kinda gal who could still dress up and dazzle–in a simpler time, you’d have been called a ‘broad’ and it would have been a compliment. We spent three years together, and I think we could have made a go of it, but then I lost my job, my health became an issue, and I became a burden. It just seemed best to move on–guess it was a mid-life thing, and I had to find myself again.

New York: You know, I had heard about you from friends. Friends who thought we’d be great together. Exciting. Open to anything. We only had two weeks, but what a whirlwind it was (you probably don’t remember, but I actually met you ten years before–at the time you didn’t even notice me, and I left without so much as a goodbye). I think we might give it another try someday. But I’m not ready to commit to you yet. You demand more than I’ve got to give, and let’s be real–you’re used to someone spending a lot of money on you. When I get my shit together, though, I will definitely look you up.

Minneapolis (again):  Why do I always come back to you when the wheels fall off? But here I am. You’re not the most glamorous city–I’ve certainly had wilder nights and more adventurous times, but right now your even temper and Lutheran reserve offer the kind of peace I need. You keep taking me back, even though you know that if my muse beckons, I’ll probably leave you again. But for now, maybe this afternoon we’ll make a hot dish, and later we can bundle up like mummies and walk to the Sculpture Garden.

Spoonbridge and Cherry

Well, since I last posted here, a lot has happened. On another site (OpenSalon), in my last rambling piece , I mentioned that I was at something of a crossroads. Well, I cast the die, crossed the Rubicon, took that one small step, threw caution to the wind, and apparently had some cliches lying around I needed to use. What I’m saying is, I packed up my life in six bags and took a train to New York City. What I’m really saying is, at almost fifty years old, I decided to move to the most expensive city in the country with a bum hip, no job, two weeks of housing at a friend of a friend’s and three hundred dollars. In February. If anyone needs a life coach, I’m available.

Basically, having been evicted, I had to move somewhere, and my (at the time) flawless reasoning was that I might as well go to one of the few places where there’s still a standup comedy ’scene,’ that having been my career. And as far as finding the inevitable mind-numbing, soul-sucking day job, well, although New York is obviously getting bitch-slapped by the economic meltdown (which New York was partly responsible for), there are still more job possibilities in New York than in, say, Minneapolis. It’s a numbers game.

So I’m here. And excited. And terrified. And excited. I mean, as I write this, I’m looking out my new friend’s window down Broadway–freakin’ Broadway! But then there’s the fact that in nine days I don’t know where I’ll be sleeping. So there’s that. Forget about mood swings–I’m on a freakin’ mood playground.

When I locked the door to my Chicago apartment for the last time, I realized I am now officially homeless. That’s weird to wrap your brain around when you always thought you were just ‘bohemian.’ It was almost a badge of pride to live a kind of spartan life. I’m an artist, goddammit! Oh, how I wish I lived in the fourteenth century, so I could have a patron. I could write jokes for the king, and live fabulously. Of course, I’d have to write jokes that only showed the king in a good light, but hey it’s showbiz.

Twenty hours. That’s how long it takes by Amtrak to go from being a Chicagoan (“fuckin’ Cubs!”) to being a New Yorker (“fuckin Mets!”). The first stop of any length along the way is Toledo, Ohio. For forty-five minutes. For no apparent reason. All I was told is ‘it’s built into the schedule.’ So I’m in the Toledo train station at 3:30 in the morning chatting with a fascinating Orthodox Jew whose trip ended in Toledo (I’m sure many Passover seders end with the hopeful prayer ‘next year in Toledo’). Now a train attendant told me we would be leaving at 4:00, so at about 3:45 I start getting ready to say my shaloms to Chaim and I see my train…start to move.

Suddenly I’m in a bad romantic comedy, all slow-motion and yelling, as I try to hobble after my train. Incidentally, on said train were my bags, which contained my phone, wallet and laptop. My entire life,or at least all record of it, was slowly, but inexorably, leaving me behind.  After what seemed like, oh, half an hour, or at least enough time to ponder every bad decision I’d ever made up to that point, the train stopped. Great. Now my imagination has me thinking this was some colossal prank, like when you’re hitchhiking and the car slows down, pulls over and then drives away. Very funny, Amtrak.

Turns out they were moving the train closer to some air hose thing (sorry, I wasn’t really processing things well at that point), and I reunited with my life. Also turns out the attendant was speaking in approximate terms with the whole 4:00 thing, and that the train departs Toledo at 3:50. Really my fault for not saying to her as I got off the train “No, when EXACTLY do we leave, because I want to make sure I don’t end up having to stay in FUCKING TOLEDO!” Apologies to any Toledo residents reading this. I’m sure it’s a lovely city.

When I settled back into my seat, I told a guy I had been chatting up on the train the story, and he said the same thing happened to him  at a stop in Cleveland recently. Which leads me to what I call the Toledo Theory. See, I think so few people choose to go to Toledo, or Cleveland, that the state of Ohio has paid Amtrak to leave a certain number of passengers behind, to help the local economy. I believe most of the residents of Toledo, Ohio were actually going somewhere else, and once they were stranded, basically said “Well…I might as well just stay here.” Granted, it’s not as sexy as black-ops helicopters or Area 51, but it’s my first wacky conspiracy theory, I’m kinda proud of it.

Anyway, more details in my next post. I have 8 days of housing left. And amazingly, I still believe in miracles.

I’ve typically dismissed horror stories about social networking sites as so much Luddite paranoia, partly because, as a relatively unknown comedian and novice print humorist, it probably wouldn’t hurt my career to have someone stalking me. I need visibility. Hell, I’d give you my social security number if you told me you liked one of my shows.

But now, I understand the dark side. I get an email tonight from someone who apparently found me through classmates.com which led him to MySpace. I think I registered for MySpace two years ago, never went back because it seemed to skew a bit…adolescent for my tastes, and though I have joined Facebook, I still don’t check MySpace because I really only need one black hole of time-wasting in my life.

Here’s the thing. He was a high school classmate of mine, and I DON’T REMEMBER WHO HE IS. At all. His name did not ring even the tiniest of bells. Forget about being afraid of being tracked by some creepy, deranged,  obsessed psycho–it is FAR more frightening to realize that someone who liked me well enough to get back in touch after thirty years has dropped entirely from my memory. I mean, what else have I forgotten? Because, if I’ve forgotten it, obviously I wouldn’t know I forgot it.

The worst part of this is that I replied to him and tried to (ever so light-heartedly) get him to jog my clearly age-enfeebled memory. I wrote–”catch me up.” His email back to me was three long paragraphs about his life (and it sounds like we could really connect based on what he’s been doing) and that of another (apparently) mutual friend of ours whom I ALSO DO NOT REMEMBER. However, there were no clues as to how we knew each other when we…actually knew each other.

So I finally decided to be honest–sent him another message saying I was having trouble recollecting how we knew each other in high school. His response?

Hi Mike (guess we weren’t that tight–nobody calls me ‘Mike’),

Do you remember ‘Mutilation Maniacs’ or ‘Elysium’ (No, and you’d think I would. More help please–were they bands?) ?  Mike and I were making super-8 films after high school (Ahhh…they made super-8 films…that’s cool. Still no clue).  You had a scene in ‘Elysium’ with Ron Kostas (DING DING DING! No…don’t remember acting in a super-8 film. I do vaguely remember Ron Kostas as…a guy I went to high-school with).  Mike used to drive in a bronze-coloured Buick Skylark, and I got around in an MGB or a motorcycle (Look, if I didn’t get it from the “movie-making” clue, I’m probably not gonna get it from the car you drove–’Of Course! The bronze Skylark dude and his buddy!‘).

J.

Anyway, I have clearly developed early-onset Alzheimer’s. I would love your comments on this, although I’m pretty sure I won’t remember any of them.

I’ve never craved power,  happy to just tell my little jokes and make a few good points in print. Just trying to change the world five hundred words at a time. Granted, I ran an unsuccessful mayoral campaign (for highlights, click here), but I fell just a bit short. In fact, I thought I’d retired from politics, but sometimes everything aligns in such a way that you simply have to seize an opportunity. That’s right, Illinois–I am now prepared to take over as Governer of this great state.

I realize I’m not legally governor (something of an oxymoron here), I’m just claiming the job until they elect someone new. First, a little background for the voters. I have always voted Democratic, except for the year in California when I switched my registration to the Peace and Freedom Party. Suffice to say, there was a woman involved. And some weed. On the issues, I’m opposed to crime, and in favor of education. I will save the state millions of dollars by running official business from my studio apartment,, and since I am currently unemployed, I will have the time to devote at least three hours each day to solving the state’s budget crisis.

The state’s unemployment will be addressed by the creation of several massive public works projects.  First, we build a giant insulating dome over the city of Chicago, thereby courting conventions and tourist dollars even in the middle of winter. Second, to reduce traffic congestion, we will build a vast network of laser-guided magnetic supersonic light rail lines to connect Chicago with…whatever the other cities in Illinois are.

Now here’s the most visionary part of my plan. Forget ’sin’ taxes, which clearly haven’t stopped people from smoking or drinking (every smoker I know has said things like “When cigarettes get to be more than _______ dollars a pack, I’m quitting,” and in reality, we would buy them for fifty dollars a pack out of the back of a van).  Instead, we tax healthy things. Soy milk. Broccoli. Bicycles. Especially bicycles. And everything related to bicycles–tax their goofy little blinking lights, tax their ridiculous bells and tax their helmets which apparently make them feel invincible as they cross three lanes of rush hour traffic and ignore stop lights even though the helmet will only protect your skull while the rest of your body can still get RUN OVER! Sorry. Bicyclists just seem a little full of themselves sometimes.

So, I’m available, people. Oh, and to avoid any possibility of getting caught up in some pay-for-play, graft-fueled corruption scandal, I will sever all ties with any professional politicians. I will only talk to my closest friends. Just my buds. Who will also be my advisors. And who will serve in various positions in my administration. In the meantime, I need to get fitted for my toupe.

The other night, I’m listening to talk radio and one of the local Chicago hosts says “we’ll be right back with Joe the Plumber.” At first I thought it was just a rebroadcast from when, you know, Joe was in the news. But no, this was January, and it was live. I think the biggest difference between now and twenty years ago is that back in the day, quasi-celebrities understood when their fifteen minutes of fame had elapsed. Tawny Kitaen rolled around on the hood of a Jaguar in 1985, and then she mercifully disappeared. And it’s not like Whistle Pops made a comeback. They had their moment.

But not Joe. Or I should say Samuel. Mr. Wurtzbacher went from unknown to symbol to icon to punch line in the span about a month, and one would think that after the election, he would have qualified for a big decorative asterisk and gone away. But no. There he was on the radio, complaining about how he felt used by both campaigns and had his privacy invaded. As he’s talking on the radio. About being on the national campaign trail with McCain. And about his website. And about his book deal. I’m not sure you’re clear on the whole ‘private citizen’ deal, Joe Sam, but when you talk to the media, you become BY FREAKING DEFINITION a public figure! We, the public, get to look into your life, because…duh, you DECIDED to be famous!

This guy apparently isn’t satisfied with fifteen minutes of fame…he’s looking for twenty, thirty minutes, maybe an hour. The latest is that intends to be a ‘reporter’ (and if their were bigger quotation marks, I’d have used them), going to the Middle East to interview ‘average Joes’ (Yusufs?) in the conflict there. I’m no purist, but I think there’s a pretty big drop-off from Edward R. Murrow to Samuel Wurtzbacher, journalism-wise.

Speaking of journalism (sort of), I have to give mad props to Paul Harvey, specifically because I’m pretty sure Paul Harvey wouldn’t know what mad props are. I know he’s a big ol’ right-wing flag-waving shill, but you can’t not like Paul Harvey. First of all, he just turned 90 years old, and you have to admire anyone who does anything for 75 years. I can’t imagine doing standup for 75 years, but I will say that if I’m still doing one-nighters in crappy bars in the year 2056 someone needs to put a bullet in my head. You know the drill with Paul–”and now–the rest of the story.” I would love it if one night Paul Harvey messed with everyone by giving his introduction and then saying “There is no…rest of the story. That’s all I got.”

The other night, I was pretty sure Paul had lost his mind, because he gave his usual setup that was all positivity and patriotism, and then the ‘rest of the story’ went on to describe how some of the first settlers of the Mayflower colony…were cannibals. WHAT? You can’t do that! That’s like your grandpa telling one of his boring war stories and all of a sudden mentioning in an avuncular voice that “well, you know, we were in a foxhole and ran out of provisions, so we had to eat Private Jones.”

Anyway, if Joe the Plumber eats somebody, let me know–unless that happens, I say we ignore him so he can enjoy all the privacy he supposedly wanted.

Sometimes when I’m creatively blocked I just start randomly typing things into Google. This time I wasn’t as random. Being a spiritual seeker, I searched for ‘God.’ Turns out, that search yielded 497,000,000 results, which I think explains why we can’t get along. Then, just to balance things out, I searched for the ‘Devil.’ Great news–only 160,000,000 results–clearly the Creator has a better handle on Search Engine Optimization. Now I’m figuring that the reason I’m not finding anything definitive is that I’m tied to archaic mythology, so I widened my search. For ‘evil,’ Google gave me 213,000,000 results, which means that there are at least 53,000,000 instances of evil for which the Devil is not responsible. This theology stuff is easy! But I wanted, at the very least, to have incontrovertible proof that is more good than evil in the world, and–voila! ‘ Good’ yields 2,060,000,000 hits! Good defeats evil! I’m a philosopher genius!

All that philosophizing took my mind off my piddling worries, but not for long. I’m just not sure where I fit in the grand scheme of things, and I’m just not feeling I’ve accomplished as much as I should. Granted I have nearly TEN regular readers of my blog, and as a standup comic, I am HUGE in Berwyn, Illinois. And Crest Hill. But I needed some perspective, so it was time to consult the Great Wireless Oracle once again.

It’s called ‘ego-surfing,’ and it involves simply typing your own name (in quotation marks) into your favorite search engine. According to the magical Google, 9,700 pages on the internet have at least one reference to ‘Michael Dane.’ So to boost my self-esteem, I decided to see how my life’s work stacks up against that of some the other Michael Danes. Instead of comparing myself to everyone on the planet, or even everyone in show business, let’s just see if I’m one of the most successful people named ‘Michael Dane.’

The first result I found was for a karaoke singer in Spokane, Washington. You can see a video here. Pleasant enough fellow, but I’m way funnier. Next I found a guy in Mooresville, North Carolina. Now he does own his own company, Dane Construction, but federal campaign records show he donated $1000 to both Kay Hagen AND Elizabeth Dole in their senate race, so that tells me he’s wishy-washy and not to be trusted. Take a stand, pal! Then, rounding out the first fifty, I get worried, because there’s a Michael Dane who’s listed as a ‘voice talent.’  But I went to his website, and first of all, he’s based in Athens, Texas, which is isn’t even the hippest Athens in the U.S. And his bio says that he was a DJ at a club called ‘Toppless,’ so I actually feel o.k. about doing comedy at Bada Brew in Crest Hill. At least I was the headliner.

The next result led me to one of the most fun time-wasting sites I’ve found in ages. Iit gives you statistical information on how your name (first, last or both as a combination) ranks in popularity, and it tells you where people with your name live. Indescribable nerd fun. There are 33 ‘Michael Dane’ listings in the entire country (making it the 613,590th most popular name), and I/we can be found in 20 states (with five of me/us in Massachusettes!).

Back to the search for my doppleganger. There’s a link to the MySpace page of a twenty-one year old girl in Lorain, Ohio, but I didn’t like the looks of her friends. She could do better. Then I think I might have real competition–an actor, and he’s actually listed on IMDB. But here’s his entire resume: in the 1985 film ‘A Certain Sacrifice,’ he played ‘Transvestite Steve,’ and in the 1987 movie ‘Hangman’ he is credited as…’Bad Guy.’ I feel much better. No disrespect, Mike, but neither of your characters had last names.

Still in the field of entertainment, Canadian singer Michael Dane apparently had a minor hit with the 12″ disco single “Let’s Make Love” (the flip side, as we all remember, was “The Dead Are Making Love), but that was in 1981, and I’ve seen no evidence of a comeback. Or a resurgence of Canadian disco.

The next contender was fun to read about. An English professor at two colleges in Hawaii, he’s listed on ratemyprofessors.com . Here’s a few quotes about Professor Dane (overall rating–4.6 out of 10):

Sometimes he seems like he’s weird but he’s very helpful.

We don’t seem to do much in class at all. He is entertaining to listen to, but jokes can be repetitive.

First impression make Dane seem intimidating. He has a strange sense of humor.

Finishing the top 100 ‘Michael Dane’ results, there’s:

a goth kid who takes pictures of himself

a lawyer in Kirtland, Ohio who in 37 years of practice has never had an instance of professional misconduct (and has apparently never left Kirtland Ohio),

a guy who owns an ‘architectural products’ company in Phoenix with a sharp-looking website where twelve of the sixteen links say ‘Coming Soon.’

a guy credited on the album “A Victorian Christmas For Brass” who didn’t play any brass–he’s listed as ‘bellringer’

So, all in all, I think I represent the Michael Danes of the world quite well.  In fact, two results of the first hundred actually quote a joke of mine, and my calendar from my website is result #104. But my favorite result actually referred to a character named ‘Michael Dane.’ In the 1923 John Ford silent film “North of Hudson Bay,”  legendary cowboy Tom Mix played a rancher named Michael Dane, and check out this synopsis from the book  “John Ford” by Tag Gallagher:

Rancher Michael Dane falls in love with Estelle while en route to Northern California where his brother Peter had struck gold. But there he finds his brother dead and his partner MacKenzie sentenced to walk the ‘death trail’…Dane tries to help MacKenzie, earns the same sentence but both excape, battling wolves, and meet Estelle, pursued by her uncle, the real murderer, who dies after a canoe chase over a waterfall.

Now that would beat the hell out of telling jokes in bars. But I am having trouble imagining the pitch meeting for that movie–it’s not exactly what you’d call ‘high concept.’ Sadly, according to the book, ‘only portions’ of the film survive, ‘with titles in Czech.’ I really don’t know why. But I do know I really need to get a job.

Well, it’s official. Professor Igor Panarin, an esteemed Russian academic and former KGB analyst with the Russian Foreign Ministry, has said there is a 45-55 percent chance that the American empire will collapse by the end of 2010. This, from the Chicago Tribune:

Mr. Panarin posits, in brief, that mass immigration, economic decline, and moral degradation will trigger a civil war next fall and the collapse of the dollar. Around the end of June 2010, or early July, he says, the U.S. will break into six pieces — with Alaska reverting to Russian control.

Well there you have it. I especially like the Alaska part–now Sarah Palin will actually BE in Russia when she’s at her house. And of course, if anyone would be good at predicting the collapse of an empire, it would be the Russians. But if Comrade Panarin is right, so many questions come to mind, the first being, will Governor Blagojovich be calling Vladimir Putin to try and buy a Politburo seat? One other note from our friends in Russia–according to a national television survey, Josef Stalin was named third-greatest Russian in history, and in classic Russian fashion, he was also named second-greatest Russian and greatest Russian. Ah, memories.

Growing up, I listened to a lot of talk radio. It used to be like a neighborhood of the airwaves–just people talking over the metaphorical back fence about things that mattered to the community. I gave up on the medium when it got co-opted by fire-breathing right-wing hatemongers, but lately, since I’m not sleeping too well, I’ve started to tune in again. Sure, there are still plenty of xenophobes and reactionaries on the air, but they’re my neighbors too, and I might as well be neighborly and listen. Like Mike Gallagher, the popular host who this week explained why he believes that the Iraqi loafer-launching journalist should have been shot to death by the Secret Service. Seriously. Yeah, what better way to show Iraquis what democracy means than a little disproportionate whup-ass without due process.

One caller on Dennis Prager’s show had a more personal topic. Seems her mother-in-law wouldn’t speak to her since she named her son ‘Job.’ Now I can see Grandma’s point–what with the name ‘Job’ representing eternal suffering for most of western civilization. But it’s not like he’s gonna get teased by his schoolmates–kids don’t read enough these days to know who Job was. Now the boy in Hunterdon County, Pennsylvania whose parents named him Adolf Hitler Campbell might have a tougher go of it come yearbook time. And why am I not surprised that Wal-Mart was willing to decorate his birthday cake?

You know, Professor Panarin might be on to something as far as our moral degradation is concerned. Consider the guy who, on Christmas Day, became so angry at a father and son talking during a showing of “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” that he shot the father…with the handgun he brought with him to the theater. Now I’ll admit I have wanted to shoot at the screen during certain movies, but did this guy at least think about…’oh, getting the usher first?

One more question when you look at this guy:  If you had to guess what movie he was watching , would you have guessed “Benjamin Button”?

Saw my favorite holiday bumper sticker the other day. It said “Santa Is A Teamster,” which makes sense, since he’s fat, only works a few days a year,  and can’t lose his job.  Christmas of course brought with it my favorite meteorological phrase–’a wintry mix.’ Now there’s descriptive, verifiable hard science for you. Anyway, I realized a long time ago that weather forecasting is actually just pseudo-science, like astrology, or phrenology. Think about it–when the weatherman says there’s a fifty percent chance of rain, that’s basically saying it might rain, or it might not.

So, I’ll wrap this up by saying there’s a forty to sixty percent chance that 2009 will be better than 2008 was. But don’t hold me to that. And have a happy new year.

Here’s why I hate trying to write topical humor. Not only are there five late night talk shows with ten writers each, and SNL, and MadTV, the Onion, and eight thousand topical blogs, but most of my hipper friends have enough technology at their disposal to simply send a one-liner on Twitter (and I’m not even sure what that is)–and poof! a joke intended for this blog has been taken. Last night, I jot down a little gag about scratching off an Illinois lottery ticket and winning a senate seat, and this morning, my friend Matt does THE EXACT SAME FREAKING JOKE as his status update on Facebook. Don’t get me wrong–I’m not saying it was comedy gold, and it’s kind of an easy angle, but it’s still a little frustrating.

Loved watching the clip of the Iraqi journalist throwing his shoes at Bush. Can’t watch it often enough. Especially the part where he throws his OTHER shoe–apparently believing the first shoe didn’t effectively communicate his point. And Bush dodged the shoe like a champ (granted, he’s had eight years of experience dodging things–accountability, criticism, responsibility)–seriously, he looked like Neo in ‘The Matrix’

I wish our press conferences were a little more rough-and-tumble.  I just have the feeling that politicians would be less inclined to bullshit if they knew they might have to dodge footwear. Overall I think the Fourth Estate (and I recently learned what the other three are from a Simpsons episode, which says something culturally) has become too wimpy. That’s one the things I love about Chicago. Since we still have two competing daily newspapers, one of them gets to be more…muckraking. It may not be as intellectual as the Tribune, but when there’s local dirt to dig, I always go to the Sun-Times first.

I also think Congress is too polite. I’d rather see Congress be more like the British Parliament. Used to love watching Parliament sessions on C-Span (C-Span is like a porn channel for political junkies). In Parliament, they actually mutter insults while the Prime Minister is speaking. Our political discourse could use a little loosening up–screw ‘parliamentary procedure,’ I want to hear Barney Frank interrupt Mitch McConnell with a little “Girlfriend, please!” In an open session of Congress, a member should be allowed to take five minutes to ridicule his rival across the aisle. “I would like to use the balance of my time to point out that my colleague from the great state of West Virginia is a backwards-thinking troglodyte.” You want to get voters involved in the political process, add a little name-calling–you’d have people at the water cooler at work saying things like “Did you hear Tom Daschle lay into Saxby Chambliss yesterday? Snap!” Apropos of nothing, ‘Saxby’ is a silly name. What, were his parents playing Scrabble when he was conceived?

As the Blago scandal ratchets up, I’m reminded of another thing I like about Chicago. In cities that are a bit more smug, this kind of scandal would be cause for outrage–time for the townspeople to light torches. Here, it’s like–yeah, they’re all crooked. The average working-stiff Chicagoan just shrugs and goes back to work. When Daley was up for coronation re-election, a survey showed that somethintg like seventy-six percent of voters believed he was connected to some form of corruption. And he won the election by pretty much the same margin. It’s sort of like a Mussolini effect–the trains are running, the garbage gets picked up, who cares who’s getting paid off. We’re gonna get the Olympics, and we have tons of bike paths!

I try not to bitch about the weather here, but today is one of those ridiculous days. This afternoon, a balmy forty-eight degrees. Tonight–eight degrees. I really don’t understand how the midwest was settled. Let’s say the westbound pioneers got here in…June. Beautiful skies over the endless plains, frolicking in the lake. But a few months later, when it became butt-fucking cold (sorry about the language, but that is an actual meteorological term)…PACK UP AND KEEP GOING WEST! It’s not like the very first Chicagoans were tied to mortgages and leases–get in the wagon and find someplace warmer! Don’t just…give up! Point your wagons south! Anywhere–just build your city someplace where a suffocating blanket of cold and ice doesn’t bury you for three months!

I would have posted sooner, but I’ve been busy preparing for an appearance in front of Congress. See, I was under the impression that the country was running out of money, but apparently you just have to ask for it. Granted, the auto bailout didn’t pass the senate, but it looks like they’ll just take fourteen billion out of the seven hundred billion that was already approved to bailout Wall Street. All this will, of course, be overseen by someone they’re calling the ‘car czar,’ an unfortunate term–what with all the criticism of Obama’s supposedly ’socialist’ leanings.

We really can’t let the auto industry collapse. If that happened, Detroit would become an empty desolate wasteland–oh wait…that’s what it is now. Anyway, I figure while they’re handing out money, I should get in line. It oughta be an easy pitch, since all I really need is five, six hundred bucks. And since the auto execs got some flack for taking private jets to D.C., I would even be willing to take Greyhound.

Here in the Land of Lincoln, we know money is always the answer. I’m not surprised that our governer was willing to sell Obama’s senate seat. I am a little surprised he couldn’t close the deal. Blagojevich’s problem (which sounds like the name of some arcane mathematical excercise–I think we had to solve that in calculus class) was that he was all over the map as far as what he wanted. According to the tapes, he wanted a Cabinet post, then he’s asking about running the Red Cross, or maybe a high-ranking union job–I mean, decide what the seat’s worth, for bleep’s sake. And just pick one buyer, instead of dealing with five. C’mon, this is basic sales technique. Keep it simple.

The fact that the transcripts even exist is amazing. If your administration is the subject of a months-long federal investigation, it’s pretty likely your phone will be tapped. Might want to discuss violating the state constitution somewhere other than your own house…go to a corner bar–there’s a few of them in Chicago. And the swearing cracks me up, because it reads like he’s auditioning for a stage version of ‘Scarface.’

Norm Coleman probably wishes he could just buy the Minnesota senate seat, but unfortunately, the good folks in Minnesota are actually trying to count all the votes that were cast. Having lived in Minnesota, this is the time of year when you’re stuck indoors anyway, so you might as well take that time to count votes. Have each precinct captain make a hot dish, mull some cider and get it right. Not much else to do in Brainerd or Round Lake in December–it’s that or scrapbooking. I really hope Franken wins, simply because he would become the first elected official in history to admit to having dropped acid.

Speaking of winter, I’m looking out my window as I write this, and it’s quite lovely–if I didn’t have to actually WALK OUTSIDE. But take it from a guy with a limp and a cane–one person’s glistening city sidewalk is another person’s treacherous path to the bus stop. Winter wonderland my ass–as far as I’m concerned, it’s just a lot of places where I can slip and crack my skull on the curb. Hope you’re all having a good holiday!